But, instead of walking round deliberately, Sir Edmund Hautley walked direct to one point of the room, halting before Lady Verner and Decima. He bent to the former, speaking a few words in a joking tone.
“I am bade to fix upon a partner, Lady Verner. May it be your daughter?”
Lady Verner looked at Decima. “She so seldom dances. I do not think you will persuade her.”
“I think I can,” he softly said, holding out his arm. And Decima rose and put hers into it without a word.
“How capricious she is!” remarked Lady Verner to the Countess of Elmsley, who was sitting next her. “If I had pressed her she would probably have said no. As she has done so many times.”
He took his place at the head of the room, Decima by his side in her white silk robes. Decima with her wondrous beauty, and the hectic on her cheeks again. Many an envious pair of eyes was cast to her. “That dreadful old maid, Decima Verner!” was amongst the compliments launched at her. “She to usurp him! How had my Lady Verner contrived to manœuvre for it?”
But Sir Edmund did not appear dissatisfied with his partner, if the room was. He paid a vast deal more attention to her than he did to the dance: the latter he put out more than once, his head and eyes being bent, whispering to Decima. Before the dance was over the hectic on her cheeks had grown deeper.
“Are you afraid of the night air?” he asked, leading her through the conservatory to the door at its other end.
“No. It never hurts me.”
He proceeded along the gravel path round to the other side of the house: there he opened the glass doors of a room and entered it. It led into another, bright with fire.
“It is my own sitting-room,” he observed. “Nobody will intrude upon us here.”
Taking up the poker, he stirred the fire into a blaze. Then he put it down and turned to her, as she stood on the hearth-rug.
“Decima!”
It was only a simple name; but Sir Edmund’s whole frame was quivering with emotion as he spoke it. He clasped her to him with a strangely fond gesture, and bent his face on hers.
“I left my farewell on your lips when I quitted you, Decima. I must take my welcome from them now.”
She burst into tears as she clung to him.
“Sir Rufus sent for me when he was dying,” she whispered. “Edmund, he said he was sorry to have opposed you; he said he would not if the time could come over again.”
“I know it,” he answered. “I have his full consent; nay, his blessing. They are but a few words, but they were the last he ever wrote. You shall see them, Decima; he calls you my future wife, Lady Hautley. Oh, my darling! what a long, a cruel separation it has been!”
Ay! far more long, more cruel for Decima than for him. She was feeling it bitterly now, as the tears poured down her face. Sir Edmund placed her in a chair. He hung over her scarcely less agitated than she was, soothing her with all the fondness of his true heart, with the sweet words she had once known so well. He turned to the door when she grew calmer.
“I am going to bring Lady Verner. It is time she knew it.”
Not through the garden this time, but through the open passages of the house, lined with servants, went Sir Edmund. Lady Verner was in the seat where they left her. He made his way to her, and held his arm out that she might take it.
“Will you allow me to monopolise you for a few minutes?” he said. “I have a tale to tell in which you may feel interested.”
“About India?” she asked, as she rose. “I suppose you used to meet some of my old friends there?”
“Not about India,” he answered, leading her from the room. “India can wait. About some one nearer and dearer to us than any now in India. Lady Verner, when I asked you just now to permit me to fix upon your daughter as a partner, I could have added for life. Will you give me Decima?”
Had Sir Edmund Hautley asked for herself, Lady Verner could scarcely have been more astonished. He poured into her ear the explanation, the whole tale of their old love, the inveterate opposition to it of Sir Rufus—which had driven him abroad.
“It was that caused you to exile yourself!” she reiterated in her amazement.
“It was, Lady Verner. Marry in opposition to my father, I would not—and had I been willing to brave him, Decima would not. So I left my home: I left Decima: my father perfectly understanding that our engagement existed still; that it only lay in abeyance until happier times. When he was dying, he repented of his harshness, and recalled his interdict; by letter to me, personally to Decima. He died with a blessing for us both on his lips. Jan can tell you so.”
“What has Jan to do with it?” exclaimed Lady Verner.
“Sir Rufus made a confidant of Jan, and charged him with the message to me. It was Jan who enclosed to me the few words my father was able to trace.”
“I think Jan might have imparted the secret to me,” resentfully spoke Lady Verner. “It is just like ungrateful Jan.”
“Jan ungrateful?—never!” spoke Sir Edmund warmly. “There’s not a truer heart breathing, than Jan’s. It was not his secret, and I expect he did not consider himself at liberty to tell even you. Decima would have imparted it to you years ago, when I went away, but for one thing.”
“What may that have been?” asked Lady Verner.
“Because we feared, she and I, that your pride would be so wounded, and not unjustly, at my father’s unreasonable opposition, that you might, in retaliation, forbid the alliance, then and always. You see I am candid, Lady Verner. I can afford to be, can I not?”
